This is supposed to be the area for my blog. As of now, I don’t know how much I will use it. No one is interested in what I have to say as it is. I don’t think anyone even reads my books, let alone my blog or website. I guess I’ll write when I feel like it or when I have time and energy, which isn’t much these days.
A little bit about me:
I’m middle-aged, female, disabled, and part of the LGBTQ+ community. I have an autoimmune disease, chronic pain and inflammation, two serious heart conditions, POTS, endometriosis, and hEDS. When I’m not in serious, agonizing pain or too fatigued to get out of bed, I try to work on my writing.
Currently, I have no pain management, no specialists to help me, no treatment plan, nothing. I have been seeing doctors for over 5 years now attempting to get them to do something but they don’t do anything. I am sure this is not only due to the fact that I am a woman but also due to the fact that I am poor. I have the worst health insurance imaginable on disability; I have been falsely flagged as “drug seeking” because I can’t take NSAIDs or Steroids, and doctors just don’t want to deal with me. Every time I do go in for something, they find even more wrong with my heart. They don’t really treat that either, but it’s getting worse, so I’ll probably die of a heart attack or something when I’m 45.
All I ever wanted was to be a successful writer. I will die before that happens. It probably will never happen. Yet, still, I’m somehow here shouting into the void, hoping that the right people will pay attention to me and give me a chance. Six years of trying and still not a peep. I will live my worst fear and die in obscurity. Thanks to the fact that I do not have the money, connections, or birthright of nepotism to find the success that I would most definitely have if I fit into the right boxes.
Unless a million dollars suddenly falls out of the sky into my lap so I can see better doctors and get on a real treatment plan, I very much expect to die young, poor, suffering, and alone. All because I was stupid enough to believe that if I worked hard and sacrificed everything to become a writer, I would see success. It was all a lie. It’s a popularity contest. A trend. A gimmick. It’s no longer about well-crafted stories, talent, or integrity. No. Writing is now about formulas, trends, the “pick me girl,” and romantasy, which is actually just porn without plot, but it sounds fancy so a lot of women buy it. Since I don’t write anything like that, I will never find an audience. I mean, I know one is out there, and maybe if I could market to a wider net of people, I could get visibility but in the end, I can’t afford that. The game of indie authorship is either pay-to-win, being a super sexy woman, writing insanely formulaic crap so you can pump out 100 books a year, or just having the right connections.
I wish I could go back to the time when talent was what meant the most when it came to publishing but social media destroyed all of that, and here I am. Living my worst nightmare instead of my dream. Thanks.
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